


The Things He Says

by Delphi



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Gags, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-30
Updated: 2009-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josiah listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He Says

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 run of Kink_Bingo on DW. Kink: _Gags_

He likes to hear Ezra talk. Likes the southern twang of his voice, the snake-charming persuasion of it. Likes the way Ezra's vocabulary resembles his wardrobe—something that's his and yet not entirely _him_—something slipped on to dazzle and distract. Josiah often thinks of all the people Ezra's cheated who remember a fancy red coat instead of a pair of green eyes, marks who remember a crisp white shirt and five dollar patter in a riverboat drawl instead of a name.

That's how what's under Ezra's clothes and what's between his words becomes inextricably linked in Josiah's head.

He likes to hear Ezra read, too. If Josiah leaves the lantern lit outside the church and manages to stay sober enough to keep vertical, Ezra might stop by after a late poker game, and they'll trade off passages from whatever book they've managed to lay hands on. Ezra missed his calling on the stage, breathing life into Robinson Crusoe or Edmond Dantes, but Josiah likes it even better when it's late and Ezra's voice is worn from a night of entertaining, and he reads out the words softly and slowly like a bedtime story.

It began with Homer's _Odyssey_ not long after Ezra got shot—sort of—for the second time. Ezra paid a visit after midnight, riding high on a profitable night, and Josiah poured him a congratulatory gin and then poured one for himself on principle.

"What are you reading?" Ezra asked, reclining on a pew.

Josiah, only being a few pages in, turned back to the beginning and intoned: "The man for wisdom's various arts renown'd / Long exercised in woes, O Muse, resound..."

He expected Ezra to interrupt him, but he didn't. So he read on a while, and Ezra lay back with his arms folded behind his head. It was nice, actually. It was...cozy. A little less fraught than their usual late-night talks, maybe, with someone else's words filling up the silence. He read until the candlelight made his vision blur, and when Ezra looked over in query at the pause, he handed the book over and Ezra took up where he'd left off.

Four or five months later and halfway through _The Arabian Nights_, it turned into something more than reading. He can't pick up that book anymore without recalling the feeling of Ezra's bare skin under his hands. It was brisk out that night, and so it seemed fair enough that they were sitting too close together, even though they'd been doing that for weeks already. The smell of Ezra's cologne mingled with eastern spices in his imagination, and he could feel the warmth radiating from him, feel the tense set of his shoulders. When the Vizier's daughter had survived for yet another night, Josiah closed the book around his finger.

Ezra didn't get up, however, and he didn't make his goodnights either. They sat there in silence, their arms touching, and Josiah eventually set the book aside.

An uncharacteristically reserved expression pinched Ezra's lips. Somehow it didn't surprise him when he asked, quietly: "How drunk are you, Josiah?"

Not so drunk that he didn't know what Ezra was really asking. "Just drunk enough."

And Ezra, who smelled of bergamot and cedar but not at all like whiskey, nodded. "So am I."

He likes to hear Ezra lie. He'd have to, to be as fond of Ezra as he is. There's a certain humor to be found in the obfuscation he spins for strangers, and there's an even subtler one in the earnest voice Ezra adopts when he lies to his friends—mostly because Ezra seems to have no idea he's aping JD when he does it.

What he likes best, however, is when Ezra tells the truth. Funny thing is, that's not usually something he can hear. It's something he sees. The look in Ezra's eyes, the twitch of his lips, the jut of his chin.

Tells.

He's never been great at poker, but after all this time he can read Ezra like a book. Maybe that's how he ends up calling on a lucky straight one slow afternoon in the saloon, winning a chit for one favor to be redeemed in private.

This is how he claims it:

Ezra comes by just after sundown, looking wary and amused both at once as he bars the door behind him. He stands just inside the church, taking his hat off and turning it over in his hands.

Josiah is lighting the candles. He wants to be able to see this. "Take your coat off. Have a drink."

Ezra picks up the bottle from the table and takes a swig. Then he sits down on a pew, casually stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "Don't keep me in suspense. What do I owe you?"

He grins. "An hour."

"An hour." Ezra seems to consider this and then takes another swig, as if he suspects he might need it. "And what are we going to do during this hour?"

Josiah picks up the pair of old reins and two bandannas in one hand, scratching his chin with the other. "Well, I was thinking I'd get you on that bed. Then I was going to tie you up and gag you. Then, I figured we'd let nature take its course."

To his credit, Ezra doesn't spit out his mouthful of whiskey. He just gulps it down hard and then sets aside the bottle. "I...see."

"Don't you trust me, Ezra?"

That earns him a snort. "I'd advise you not to ask questions you won't like the answers to."

He shrugs, his smile unwavering "Best kind, in my experience. So what do you say?"

Ezra's jaw works hard, visibly chewing the idea over. He fidgets—just for an instant—and then he stands up and whips off his jacket. He gives his lace cuffs a dramatic tug. "I never welch on my debts, sir."

Josiah's eyebrow twitches.

Ezra tugs on his cuffs again, this time slightly abashed. "At least when I have to work with my debtor in the morning."

Josiah sets his watch on a sawhorse. One hour. Then he hooks two fingers in the waistband of Ezra's pants and pulls him close. Breathes in the soap and shaving tonic scent of him. Feels the damp warmth of his hair, fresh from the bath. Strokes his back until some of the tension eases away and then lets his hand move lower.

Ezra wraps an arm around him and kisses him hard, a cocky kiss that says, succinctly: _Don't you like my mouth just fine?_

He does. Ezra's mouth can be filthy when he wants it be, hot and wet, whispering wicked things in his ear, swearing like a blasphemous sailor when he's five seconds from coming. He loves Ezra's mouth, and it's with a little reluctance that he draws back, folding up one of the bandannas.

"Open up."

Eyes glinting, Ezra obliges, the tip of his tongue resting against his lower lip. It's a deliberate pose, one calculated to make him think of Ezra on his knees, to make him imagine all the shameless, hungry things that tongue can do. He remembers the first time Ezra sank down and reached for his belt buckle, the flash of knowledge at the first touch that Ezra had more practice than him at this, and the way he spat into his handkerchief afterward, a pearly strand dripping lewdly from the corner of his lips.

"Play fair," he says, pushing the wadded cloth into Ezra's mouth.

The reply, though muffled, is clear enough. _Make me._

He twists the other bandanna up and knots it at the nape of Ezra's neck with a hard tug. Ezra jerks like a fish on the line.

He lets out a hard breath. The red slash of the cloth against Ezra's cheek is handsomer than it has any right to be. He traces it with his fingertips, strokes Ezra's lips. It changes the shape of his face, taking the edge off his smirk.

"Shall we?"

Ezra swaggers to the bed and flops down with his back to the window. He lands in an inviting sprawl, one knee raised and an arm slung around it in semblance of perfect relaxation. His eyes say: _Do your worst._

Josiah kneels down at the bedside and pulls off Ezra's boots. Socks and garters follow, and he strokes the soles of his feet. Ezra's fingers twitch and his toes curl.

"Ticklish?"

Ezra kicks him in the ribs.

Chuckling, he moves on up to his flies, flicking open each button as Ezra shifts to get comfortable. He rubs his palm over the linen twill of Ezra's drawers, feeling him half-hard underneath and getting harder. His own cock is stirring, a rush of blood heading south as he slips his fingers into the slit of Ezra's drawers and draws him out. Strokes him, feeling him stiffen right up in his hand. Rubs his thumb around the newly bared glans and then licks.

A short, muffled sound escapes through the gag. Ezra grabs at Josiah's shoulder, clutching a fistful of his shirt.

He works at him with wet lips, the firm press of a tongue, the tight ring of his thumb and forefinger. Just teasing, just getting him warmed up. His attention is split between admiring the sight of Ezra's straining, glistening cock and watching Ezra's face: head tilted back, eyes shut, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

Ezra's fingers blindly trace his jaw line, his ear, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up in a pleasant shiver. He remembers now why he wanted to tie Ezra up. His hands are too sly, too good at making him forget what he wants to do.

He draws back an inch, and Ezra's hips press up to follow. "Take your shirt off."

A "pretty please" is held in reserve, but Ezra readily obliges, working at the buttons of his waistcoat. His cuff links are carefully placed on the bedside table. Josiah takes him in hand again, stroking slowly as Ezra's chest is uncovered.

Tactics. Can't tie Ezra up if his shirt's not off. That would be a damned fool waste of a favor, because Ezra's put together just dandy. Broad shoulders and strong arms and a hard stomach. That's not the sort of body a man gets sitting at a poker table all day, and Josiah's caught him doing push-ups and sit-ups and scaling down from his second-story window at all hours, like he's training for the day they finally run him out of town.

His hand moves over the smooth planes of Ezra's chest, playing with his nipples until they're pebbled. He leans in, mouth following the path of his hand, nuzzling his way up from Ezra's navel. A pink flush rises up in his wake, slowly climbing Ezra's chest. He presses his cheek to the heat of it and then makes short work of the rest of Ezra's clothes.

"Turn around."

Ezra makes a faint sound of protest but turns, kneeling up. Josiah picks up the reins and draws Ezra's hands behind his back, tying his wrists together with a trio of quick loops. Not too tight. He knows him, knows he can wiggle his way out of them if he needs to. Ezra reaches back, grabbing him hard through his pants.

He sucks in a breath and gives a strained chuckle. "Ezra..."

Goosebumps rise up on Ezra's arms.

Oh. Now that's interesting.

He tries it again, murmuring very low in Ezra's ear. "Ezra, Ezra, Ezra..."

Ezra shivers, the flush reaching his ears.

Josiah grins, kicking off his shoes and undressing, aware of Ezra stealing bright-eyed glances at him over his shoulder. He climbs up on the bed behind him, and Ezra leans back.

"Do you have any idea..." His fingers trail up the underside of Ezra's cock. "...how good you look like this?"

He doesn't think he would have said it if Ezra were capable of answering back, and if Ezra nods or shakes his head in the slightest, he doesn't see it. He's too busy kissing Ezra's neck, and stroking Ezra's cock, and rubbing up against him until they're both breathing hard.

His hands move to Ezra's hips, spreading his cheeks wide apart.

Ezra's breath catches and his back arches in unmistakable eagerness. You can tell he likes being on this end of it, really likes it, even if they keep up the pretense of trading off fairly every second time. Something about being fucked drives Ezra crazy, sets him right on fire, and just watching him can make Josiah burn up too, flesh seared away until he's nothing but a naked skeleton with a soul rattling around inside.

A man's not supposed to like it so much, of course. _'Tis better to give than to receive,_ as the book says, but Josiah's never seen the difference. How's any pleasure of the flesh supposed to be more sinful than another when no one's here but the two of them, and he feels so fine, and Ezra has that sweet, hopeful look on his face?

There's a tin on the table, and he opens it up, getting a good dollop of the stuff on his fingertips. The gag doesn't deprive him of one of his favorite parts: the soft, throaty noise that Ezra makes when two fingers push slickly into him. This is the part where otherwise Ezra might start to babble—you need a better bed, we haven't got all night, at least take your boots off—anything to cover his embarrassment at enjoying himself so much, but all he can do now is moan low and rub his cheek cat-like and helpless against the curtains.

He wraps an arm around Ezra's chest and pulls him closer. His fingers slide slowly out, making Ezra's breath catch. A hungry, plaintive hum, and then something almost like a hiccup as Josiah's cock presses into him.

A low, rumbling moan rolls from his own throat as he slides into the sweet, slick heat.

Slow...slow at first. It's rare that they steal a whole hour—usually they don't bother going any longer than they both need to get it up and shoot—and he wants to savor this. He wants to see everything, wants to hear every hitching breath and little moan, feel every buck and quiver. He doesn't look over at his watch, doesn't want to know how many long, aching minutes are spent moving in the shallows. Slow, deep thrusts. Light caresses of lips on bare skin. Teasing Ezra's foreskin back and forth just enough to keep him good and hard.

Ezra's hips are smooth as silk, rolling with every thrust, pressing back on Josiah's cock and then forward into the palm of his hand. Persuasive, persuasive. Subtly picking up the pace, making Josiah quicken to keep up.

So hot. Skin and blood and the warm night air. Ezra drops his head back on Josiah's shoulder. His pulse races under Josiah's lips, and he tastes of salt. He moans something with the shape of words, garbled through the gag.

"Harder?" Josiah asks, his voice strained and hungry, and he shouldn't have to—not with Ezra moving so desperately against him—doesn't have to, except for the fact that the gag's going to come off eventually and they're going to have to look each other in the eye tomorrow.

A nod, quick and shaky.

The bed creaks violently as he gives him all he's got, and Ezra's noisier gagged than he's ever been full-voiced, making little rough sounds over and over again in counterpoint to the complaining bed frame.

"Sh, sh, sh." Josiah hushes him, or tries to, but he can't even hear himself over the rush of blood in his ears and the smack of their skin driving together. The most he can do is tamp down his own urge to howl at the moon when the first shiver hits him. His hips stutter, rutting harder for a handful of pounding heartbeats, and then he's holding his breath and thrusting slowly, screwing in deep as he spends, riding out the waves.

Ezra arches, his breath coming quick as he pushes insistently into Josiah's grip.

"Ezra..." he hums fondly, coming down with deep breaths and thrumming skin, still buried inside him.

He brings him off ruthlessly. Ezra's a handsome mess, his gag askew and soaked through with spit, hair plastered to his forehead. Josiah urges him on with a tight fist and a flurry of strokes until Ezra makes a soft, choked sound and comes all over his hand. He wants it all, wants every drop, rubbing and squeezing until Ezra is flinching, shuddering, almost whimpering.

Only then does he let him go, drawing back. His chest parts from Ezra's back with an audible sigh. He wipes his hand off on the sheet and then traces Ezra's arm from shoulder to wrist. Ezra's hands hang perfectly limp beneath the knot of the reins. He unties him.

Shakily, Ezra reaches for the bandanna and pulls it off. He spits out the gag and drags the back of his hand over his mouth several times before fastidiously cleaning himself up. Then he flops over with a deep-heaved groan and stretches out. The bed isn't built for two; there's nowhere for Josiah to lie down but half on top of him.

He watches that flush fade slowly away, down Ezra's cheeks, past his collarbone, giving up the ghost inch by inch. His fingertips idly follow it, stroking and circling down Ezra's chest. He doesn't want him to go just yet. "Talk to me."

Ezra doesn't reply for a long moment. His eyes are shut. He licks his lips, a sandpaper-dry sound, and Josiah tells himself to get up and get some water. In a minute, in a minute.

"What do you want me to say?"

Josiah shrugs. "Anything."

"I let you win."

"Mm?"

"An ace-high straight? Really."

In Ezra-speak, he supposes that could mean anything from stacking the deck in his favor to just plain not cheating. He snorts.

"Appreciate it," he says. And he does.

Carefully, while Ezra's eyes are still closed, he reaches over and quietly shuts his watch without reading the time. Then, with just as much caution, he touches the red marks at the corners of Ezra's mouth. They should fade by morning, the soft skin just a little irritated. Ezra wrinkles his nose but doesn't pull away.

Josiah lies back down. He can hear, in the distance, the din of the saloon on one side and the chirping of katydids on the other. Mingled breathing, the brief guttering of the candles in the draft—and beneath it all, the near-silent confession of Ezra falling asleep beside him. It speaks volumes.


End file.
